Raymond E. Feist - Riftwar 1 - Magician

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MAGICIAN

ePIC) HEROIC FANtASY

in the GREAT TRADitiON

To celebrate the tenth anniversary of the firstt

publication of his classic fantasy novel Magician, Raymond E

Feist has prepared a new, revised edition, to incorporate

15,000 words of text omitted from previous editions so

that 'it is essentially the book I would have written

had I the skills I possess today'.

Raymond E. Fiest

At Crydee, a frontier outpost in the tranquil kingdom

of the Isles an orphan boy, Pug is apprenticed to a master

magician. Before long Pug's emerging powers have

produced two miracles and won him a Duke's favour and a

Princess's heart. But suddenly the peace in Crydee

is shattered as mysterious alien invaders swarm through the

kingdom. For Pug and his warrior friend, Tomas,

the journey into the unknown has only just begun. Tomas

will inherit a legacy of savage power from an ancient

civilisation. Pug will be thrust into the strangest adventure of

all, and the destinies of two worlds will be changed forever.

epic scope... fast_moving action... vlvld ~tlon.'

Warkifigron Pvst

gToae ofiatrlgue and sctlon'

PVbIisherr WaakZy

BIAGICIkN

reymond E. Feist was born and raised in Southern California. He

was nted at the University of California, San Diego, where he

graduated honours in Communication Arts.

He is the author of the bestselling

critically acclaimed Riftwrar Saga (Magician, Silverthorn, and A

darkness at Sethanon), Prince of the Blood, Faery Tale and The King's

buckaneer, and co-author (with Janny Wurts) of Daughter of the Empire,

Servant of the Empire and Mistress of the Empire.

Feist and his wife,

Starbuck, live in San Diego, California, where they collect

art and vintage wines.

BY THE SAmE AUTHOR

Silverthorn

A Darkness at Sethanon

Prince of the Blood

Faerie Tale

The King's Buccaneer

WITH JANNY WURTS

Daughter of the Empire

Servant of the Empire

mistress of the Empire

MAGIfIAIV

This book is dedicated to the memory of my father,

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ReIix E. Fiest,

in all ways, a magician

ACKNOwLEdGMENtS

Many people have provided me with incalculable aid in bringing

this

novel into existence. I would like to offer my heartfelt

thanks to:

The Friday Nighters: April and Stephen Abrams; Steve Barett;

David

Brin, Anita and Jon Everson, Dave Guinasso; Conan LaMotte; Tim

LeSelle, Ethan Munson, Bob 8otter, Rich Spahl, Alan Springer,

and

Lori and Jeff Velten, for their useful criticism, enthusiasm,

suphort,

belief, wise counsel, wonderful ideas, and most of all, their

friendship.

Billie and Russ Blake, and Lilian and Mike Fiessier, for

always being willing to help.

Harold Matson, my agent, for taking a chance on me.

Adrian Zackheim, my editor, for asking rather than demanding,

and for working so hard to build a good book.

Kate Cronin, assistant to the editor, for having a sense of

humor and for so gracefully putting up with all my nonsense.

Elaine Chubb, copy editor, for having such a gentle touch and for

caring so much about the words.

And Barbara A. Feist, my mother, for all of the above and

more.

RAYmoND E. FEIST

San Diego, California

,uIy 198Z

ICLNOWLEIGMENHOHE

BE V I S E ll E ll1l1 ON

On this occasion, the publication of the author's preferred edition, I

would like to add the following names to the preceding list,

people who, though not known to me at the time I made the foregoing

acknowledgment, proved invaluable aid to me in bringing-Magician to the

public and contributed materially to my success:

Mary Ellen Curley, who took over from Katie and kept us all on course.

Peter Schneider, whose enthusiasm for the work gave me a valued ally

within Doubleday and a close friend for the last decade.

Lou Aronica, who bought it even when he really didn't want to do

reprints, and for giving me the chance to return to my first work and

'rewrite it one more time."

Pat Lobrutto, who helped before it was his job, and who took over at a

tough time, and whose friendship endures beyond our business relationship.

Janna Silverstein, who despite her short tenure as my editor has shown

an uncanny knack for knowing when to leave me alone and when to stay

in touch.

Nick Austin, John Booth, Jonathan Lloyd, Malcolm Edwards, and everyone

at Granada, now HarperCollins Books, who made the work an international

bestseller.

Abner Stein, my British agent, who sold it to Nick in the first

place.

Janny Wurts, for being my friend, and who, by working with me on the

Empire Trilogy, gave me a completely different perspective on the

Tsurani, she helped turn The Game of the Council from a vague concept

to a murderously real arena of human conflict. Kelewan and

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Tsuranuanni are as much her inventions as mine. I drew the outlines

and she colored in the details.

And Jonathan Matson, who received the torch from a great man's hand

and continued without faltering, for wise counsel and friendship. The

acorn fell very close to the tree.

And most of all, my wife Kathlyn s. Starbuck, who understands my pain

and joy in this craft because she toils in the same vineyard, and who is

always there even when I don't deserve to have her there, and who

makes things make sense through her love.

RAYmoND E. FEIST

San Diego, California

April 1991

roBrwoBn 1 0 lIE

BEVISEI EIXHON

It is with some hesitation and a great deal of trepidation that an author

approaches the task of revising an earlier edition of fiction. This is

especially true if the book was his first effort, judged successful by most

standards, and continuously in print for a decade.

Magician was all this, and more. In late 1977 I decided to try my

hand at writing, part-time, while I was an employee of the University of

California, San Diego. It is now some fifteen years later, and I have

been a full-time writer for the last fourteen years, successful in this craft

beyond my wildest dreams. Magician, the first novel in what became

known as The RiHtwar Saga, was a book that quickly took on a life of its

own. I hesitate to admit this publicly, but the truth is that part of the

success of the book was my ignorance of what makes a commercially

successful novel. My willingness to plunge blindly forward into a tale

spanning two dissimilar worlds, covering twelve years in the lives of

several major and dozens of minor characters, breaking numerous rules

of plotting along the way, seemed to find kindred souls among readers

the world over. After a decade in print, my best judgment is that the

appeal of the book is based upon its being what was known once as a

"ripping yarn." I had little ambition beyond spinning a good story, one

that satisfied my sense of wonder, adventure, and whimsy. It

turned out that several million readers-many of whom read translations in languages

I can't even begin to comprehend-found it one that satisfied

their tastes for such a yarn as well.

But insofar as it was a first effort, some pressures of the marketplace

did manifest themselves during the creation of the final book. Magician

is by anyone's measure a large book. When the penultimate manuscript

version sat upon my editor's desk, I was' informed that some fifty thousand

words would have to be cut. And cut I did. Mostly line by line, but

a few scenes were either truncated or excised.

While I could live out my life with the original manuscript as published

being the only edition ever read, I have always felt that some of

the material cut added a certain resonance, a counterpoint if you will,

to key elements of the tale. The relationships between characters, the

additional details of an alien world, the minor moments of

reflection and mirth that act to balance the more frenetic activity of

conflict and adventure, all these things were "close but not quite what I

had in mind."

In any event, to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the original publication

of Magician, I have been permitted to return to this work, to

reconstruct and change, to add and cut as I see fit, to bringforth what is

known in publishing as the "Author's Preferred Edition" of the work.

So, with the old admonition, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it,"ringing in

my ears, I return to the first work I undertook, back when I had no

pretensions of craft, no stature as a bestsdling author, and basically no

idea of what I was doing. My desire is to restore some of those excised

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bits, some of the minor detail that I felt added to the heft of the

narrative, as well as the weight of the book. Other material was more

directly related to the books that follow, setting some of the background

for the mythic underpinning of the Riftwar. The slightly lengthy discussion

of lore between Tully and Kulgan in Chapter Three, as well as some

of the things revealed to Pug on the Tower of Testing were clearly in this

area. My editor wasn't sold on the idea of a sequel, then, so some of this

was cut. Returning it may be self-indulgent, but as this was material I

felt belonged in the original book, it has been restored.

To those readers who have already discovered Magician, who wonder if

it's in their interests to purchase this edition, I would like to reassure

them that nothing profound has been changed. No characters previously

dead are now alive, no battles lost are now won, and two boys still

find the same destiny. I ask you to feel no compulsion to read this new

volume, for your memory of the original work is as valid, perhaps more

so, than mine. But if you wish to return to the world of Pug and Tomas,

to rediscover old friends and forgotten adventure, then consider this

edition your opportunity to see a bit more than the last time. And to

the new reader, welcome. I trust you'll find this work to your satisfaction

It is with profound gratitude I wish to thank you all, new readers and

old acquaintances, for without your support and encouragement, ten

years of "ripping yarns" could not have been possible. If I have the

opportunity to provide you with a small part of the pleasure I feel in

being able to share my fanciful adventures with you, we are equally

rewarded, for by your embracing my works you have allowed me to

fashion more. Without you there would have been no Silverthorn, A

Darkness at Sethanon, Faerie Tale, and no Empire Trilogy. The letters get

read, if not answered-even if they sometimes take months to reach me

and the kind remarks, in passing at public appearances, have enriched

me beyond measure. But most of all, you gave me the freedom to

' practice a craft that was begun to '"see if I could do it," while working at

the Residence halls of John Muir College at UCSD.

So, thank you. I guess I did it." And with this work, I hope you'll

agree that this time I did it a little more elegantly, with a little more

color, weight, and resonance.

RAYmOND E. FEIST

San Diago, California

August 1991

MAGICIAN

BooK I

Storm

tHE STORM hAD BROKEN. Pug danced along the edge of the rocks, his feet

finding scant purchase as he made his way among the tide pools. His dark

eyes darted about as he peered into each pool under the cliff face, seeking

the spiny creatures driven into the shallows by the recently passed storm.

His boyish muscles bunched under his light shirt as he shifted the sack of

sandcrawlers, rockclaws, and crabs plucked from this water garden. The

afternoon sun sent sparkles through the sea spray swirling around him, as

the west wind blew his sun-streaked brown hair about. Pug set his sack

down, checked to make sure it was securely tied, then squatted on a clear

patch of sand. The sack was not quite full, but Pug relished the extra hour

or so that he could relax. Megar the cook wouldn't trouble him about the

time as long as the sack was almost full. Resting with his back against a

large rock, Pug was soon dozing in the sun's warmth. A cool wet spray woke

him hours later. He opened his eyes with a start, knowing he had stayed

much too long. Westward, over the sea, dark thunderheads were forming above

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the black outline of the Six Sisters, the small islands on the horizon. The

roiling, surging clouds, with rain trailing below like some sooty veil,

heralded another of the sudden storms common to this part of the coast in

early summer.

To the south, the high bluffs of Sailor's Grief reared up against the sky, as

waves crashed against the base of that rocky pinnacle. Whitecaps started to

form behind the breakers, a sure sign the storm would quickly strike. Pug

knew he was in danger, for the storms of summer could drown anyone on the

beaches, or if severe enough, on the low ground beyond. He picked up his

sack and started north, toward the castle. As he moved among the pools, he

felt the coolness in the wind turn to a deeper, wetter cold. The day began

to be broken by a patchwork of shadows as the first clouds passed before

the sun, bright colors fading to shades of grey. Out to sea, lightning

flashed against the blackness of the clouds, and the distant boom of

thunder rode over the noise of the waves. Pug picked up speed when he came

to the first stretch of open beach.

The storm was coming in faster than he would have thought possible,

driving the rising tide before it. By the time he reached the second

stretch of tide pools, there was barely ten feet of dry sand between

water's edge and cliffs. Pug hurried as fast as was safe across the rocks,

twice nearly catching his foot. As he reached the next expanse of sand, he

mistimed his jump from the last rock and landed poorly. He fell to the

sand, grasping his ankle. As if waiting for the mishap, the tide surged

forward, covering him for a moment. He reached out blindly and felt his

sack carried away. Frantically grabbing at it, Pug lunged forward, only to

have his ankle fail. He went under, gulping water. He raised his head,

sputtering and coughing. He started to stand when a second wave, higher

than the last, hit him in the chest, knocking him backward. Pug had grown

up playing in the waves and was an experienced swimmer, but the pain of his

ankle and the battering of the waves were bringing him to the edge of

panic. He fought it off and came up for air as the wave receded. He half

swam, half scrambled toward the cliff face, knowing the water would be only

inches deep there. Pug reached the cliffs and leaned against them, keeping

as much weight off the injured ankle as possible. He inched along the rock

wall, while each wave brought the water higher. When Pug finally reached a

place where he could make his way upward, water was swirling at his waist.

He had to use all his strength to pull himself up to the path. He lay

panting a moment, then started to crawl up the pathway, unwilling to trust

his balky ankle on this rocky footing. The first drops of rain began to

fall as he scrambled along, bruising knees and shins on the rocks, until he

reached the grassy top of the bluffs. Pug fell forward exhausted, panting

from the exertion of the climb. The scattered drops grew into a light but

steady rain.

When he had caught his breath, Pug sat up and examined the swollen ankle.

It was tender to the touch, but he was reassured when he could move it: it

was not broken. He would have to limp the entire way back, but with the

threat of drowning on the beach behind him, he felt relatively buoyant. Pug

would be a drenched, chilled wretch when he reached the town. He would have

to find a lodging there, for the gates of the castle would be closed for

the night, and with his tender ankle he would not attempt to climb the wall

behind the stables. Besides, should he wait and slip into the keep the next

day, only Megar would have words for him, but if he was caught coming over

the wall, Swordmaster Fannon or Horsemaster Algon would surely have a lot

worse in store for him than words. While he rested, the rain took on an

insistent quality and the sky darkened as the late-afternoon sun was

completely engulfed in storm clouds. His momentary relief was replaced with

anger at himself for losing the sack of sandcrawlers. His displeasure

doubled when he considered his folly at falling asleep. Had he remained

awake, he would have made the return trip unhurriedly, would not have

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sprained his ankle, and would have had time to explore the streambed above

the bluffs for the smooth stones he prized so dearly for slinging. Now

there would be no stones, and it would be at least another week before he

could return. If Megar didn't send another boy instead, which was likely

now that he was returning empty-handed. Pug's attention shifted to the

discomfort of sitting in the rain, and he decided it was time to move on.

He stood and tested his ankle. It protested such treatment, but he could

get along on it. He limped over the grass to where he had left his

belongings and picked up his rucksack, staff, and sling. He swore an oath

he had heard soldiers at the keep use when he found the rucksack ripped

apart and his bread and cheese missing. Raccoons, or possibly sand lizards,

he thought. He tossed the now useless sack aside and wondered at his

misfortune. Taking a deep breath, he leaned on his staff as he started

across the low rolling hills that divided the bluffs from the road. Stands

of small trees were scattered over the landscape, and Pug regretted there

wasn't more substantial shelter nearby, for there was none upon the bluffs.

He would be no wetter for trudging to town than for staying under a tree.

The wind picked up, and Pug felt the first cold bite against his wet back.

He shivered and hurried his pace as well as he could. The small trees

started to bend before the wind, and Pug felt as if a great hand were

pushing at his back. Reaching the road, he turned north. He heard the eerie

sound of the great forest off to the east, the wind whistling

Through the branches of the ancient oaks, adding to its already foreboding

aspect. The dark glades of the forest were probably no more perilous

than the King's road, but remembered tales of outlaws and other, less

human, malefactors stirred the hairs on the boy's neck. Cutting across the

King's road, Pug gained a little shelter in the gully that ran alongside

it. The wind intensified and rain stung his eyes, bringing tears to already

wet cheeks. A gust caught him, and he stumbled off balance for a moment.

Water was gathering in the roadside gully, and he had to step carefully to

keep from losing his footing in unexpectedly deep puddles. For nearly an

hour he made his way through the ever growing storm. The road turned

northwest, bringing him almost full face into the howling wind. Pug

leaned into the wind, his shirt whipping out behind him. He swallowed hard,

to force down the choking panic rising within him. He knew he was in danger

now, for the storm was gaining in fury far beyond normal for this time of

year. Great ragged bolts of lightning lit the dark landscape, briefly

outlining the trees and road in harsh, brilliant white and opague black.

The dazzling afterimages, black and white reversed, stayed with him for a

moment each time, confusing his senses. Enormous thunder peals sounding

overhead felt like physical blows. Now his fear of the storm outweighed his

fear of imagined brigands and goblins. He decided to walk among the trees

near the road; the wind would be lessened somewhat by the boles of the

oaks. As Pug closed upon the forest, a crashing sound brought him to a

halt. In the gloom of the storm he could barely make out the form of a

black forest boar as it burst out of the undergrowth. The pig tumbled from

the brush, lost its footing, then scrambled to its feet a few yards away.

Pug could see it clearly as it stood there regarding him, swinging its head

from side to side. Two large tusks seemed to glow in the dim light as they

dripped rainwater. Fear made its eyes wide, and it pawed at the ground.

The forest pigs were bad-tempered at best, but normally avoided humans.

This one was panic-stricken by the storm, and Pug knew if it charged he

could be badly gored, even killed. Standing stock-still, Pug made ready to

swing his staff, but hoped the pig would return to the woods. The boar's

head raised, testing the boys smell on the wind. Its pink eyes seemed to

glow as it trembled with indecision. A sound made it turn toward the trees

for a moment, then it dropped its head and charged. Pug swung his staff,

bringing it down in a glancing blow to the side of the pig's head, turning

it. The pig slid sideways in the muddy footing, hitting Pug in the legs. He

went down as the pig slipped past. Lying on the ground, Pug saw the boar

skitter about as it turned to charge again.

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the pig was upon him, and Pug had no time to stand. He

thrustt the staff before him in a vain attempt to turn the animal again.

The boar dodged the staff and Pug tried to roll away, but a weight fell

across his body. Pug covered his face with his hands, keeping his arms

to his chest, expecting to be gored.

", After a moment he realized the pig was still. Uncovering his face, he

discovered the pig lying across his lower legs, a black-feathered,

clothyard arrow protruding from its side. Pug looked toward the forest. A

man garbed in brown leather was standing near the edge of the trees,

carefully wrapping a yeoman's longbow with an oilcloth cover. Once the

valuable weapon was protected from further abuse by the weather, the

man crossed to stand over the boy and beast. He was cloaked and hooded, his

face hidden. He knelt next to Pug and shouted over the sound of the wind,

"Are you 'right, boy?" as he liffted the dead boar easily from Pug's legs.

"Bones broken?"

.'I don't think so," Pug yelled back, taking

account of himself. His right side smarted, and his legs felt equally bruised.

with his ankle still tender, he was feeling ill-used today, but nothing

seemed broken or permanently damaged. Large, meaty hands lifted him to his

feet. "Here," the man commanded, handing him his staff and the bow. Pug

took them while the stranger quickly gutted the boar with a large hunter's

knife. He completed his work and turned to Pug. "Come with me, boy. You had

best lodge with my master and me. It's not far, but we'd best hurry. This

storrn'll get worse afore it's over. Can you walk?" Taking an unsteady

step, Pug nodded. Without a word the man shouldered the pig and took his

bow. "Come," he said, as he turned toward the forest. He set off at a brisk

pace, which pug had to scramble to match. The forest cut the fury of the

storm so little that conversation was impossible. A lightning flash lit the

scene for a moment, and Pug caught a glimpse of the man's face. Pug tried

to remember if he had seen the stranger before. He had the look common to

the hunters and foresters that lived in the forest of Crydee:

large-shouldered, tall, and solidly built. He had dark hair and beard and

the raw, weather-beaten appearance of one who spends most of his time

outdoors. For a few fanciful moments the boy wondered if he might be some

member of an outlaw band, hiding in the heart of the forest. He gave up the

notion, for no outlaw would trouble himself with an obviously penniless

keep boy. Remembering the man had mentioned having a master, Pug suspected

he was a franklin, one who lived on the estate of a landholder.

He would be in the holder's service, but not bound to him as a bondsman.

The franklins were freeborn, giving a share of crop or herd in

exchange for the use of land. He must be freeborn. No bondsman would

be allowed to carry a longbow, for they were much too

Valuable-and dangerous. Still, Pug couldn't remember any landholdings in

the forest. It was a mystery to the boy, but the toll of the day's abuses

was quickly driving away any curiosity.

AFtER WHAT SEEMED to be hours, the man walked into a thicket of trees. Pug

nearly lost him in the darkness, for the sun had set some time before,

taking with it what faint light the storm had allowed. He followed the man

more from the sound of his footfalls and an awareness of his presence than

from sight. Pug sensed he was on a path through the trees, for his

footsteps met no resisting brush or detritus. From where they had been

moments before, the path would be difficult to find in the daylight,

impossible at night, unless it was already known. Soon they entered a

clearing, in the midst of which sat a small stone cottage. Light shone

through a single window, and smoke rose from the chimney. They crossed the

clearing, and Pug wondered at the storm's relative mildness in this one

spot in the forest. Once before the door, the man stood to one side and

said, "You go in, boy. I must dress the pig." Nodding dumbly, Pug pushed

open the wooden door and stepped in. "Close that door, boy. You'll give me

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a chill and cause me my death.' Pug jumped to obey, slamming the door

harder than he intended.

He turned, taking in the scene before him. The interior of the cottage was

a small single room. Against one wall was the fireplace, with a good- size

hearth before it. A bright, cheery fire burned, casting a warm glow. Next

to the fireplace a table sat, behind which a heavyset, yellow-robed figure

rested on a bench. His grey hair and beard nearly covered his entire head,

except for a pair of vivid blue eyes that twinkled in the firelight. A long

pipe emerged from the beard, producing heroic clouds of pale smoke

Pug knew the man. "Master Kulgan . . . was the Duke's

magician and adviser, a familiar face around the castle keep. Kulgan

leveled a gaze at Pug, then said in a deep voice, given to rich rolling

sounds and powerful tones,

"So you know me, then?"

"Yes, sir. From the castle."

"What is your name, boy from the keep?"

"Pug, Master Kulgan."

"Now I remember you." The magician absently waved his

hand.

"Do not call me 'Master,' Pug-though I am rightly called a master of my

arts,'' he said with a merry crinkling around his eyes. 'I am higher-born

than you, it is true, but not by much. Come, there is a blanket hanging by

the fire, and you are drenched. Hang your clothes to dry, then sit there."

He pointed to a bench opposite him.

Pug did as he was bid, keeping an eye on the magician the entire

tIme. He was a member of the Duke's court, but still a magician, an object

of suspicion, generally held in low esteem by the common folk. If a lirmer

had a cow calve a monster, or blight strike the crops, villagers were apt

to ascribe it to the work of some magician lurking in nearby shadows. In

times not too far past they would have stoned Kulgan from Crydee as like as

not. His position with the Duke earned him the tolerance of the townsfolk

now, but old fears died slowly. After his garments were hung, Pug sat down.

He started when he saw a pair of red eyes regarding him from just beyond

the magician's table. A scaled head rose up above the tabletop and studied

the boy.

Kulgan laughed at the boy's discomfort. "Come, boy. Fantus will not hurt

you." He dropped his hand to the head of the creature, who sat next to him

on his bench, and rubbed above its eye ridges. It closed its eyes and gave

forth a soft crooning sound, not unlike the purring of a cat. Pug shut his

mouth, which had popped open with surprise, then

asked, "Is he truly a dragon, sir?"

The magician laughed, a rich, good-natured sound. "Betimes he

thinks he is, boy. Fantus is a firedrake, cousin to the dragon,

though of smaller stature." The creature opened one eye and fastened it on

the magician. "But of equal heart," Kulgan quickly added, and the drake

closed his eye again. Kulgan spoke softly, in conspiratorial tones. "He is

very clever, so mind what you say to him. He is a creature of finely

fashioned sensibilities." Pug nodded that he would. "Can he breathe fire?"

he asked, eyes wide with wonder. To any boy of thirteen, even a cousin to a

dragon was worthy of awe. "When the mood suits hih, he can belch out a

flame or two, though he seems rarely in the mood. I think it is due to the

rich diet I supply him with, boy. He has not had to hunt for years, so he

is something out of practice in the ways of drakes. In truth, I spoil him

shamelessly."

Pug found the notion somehow reassuring. If the magician cared

Enough to spoil this creature, no matter how outlandish, then he seemed

somehow more human, less mysterious. Pug studied Fantus, admiring how the

fire brought golden highlights to his emerald scales. About the size of a

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small hound, the drake possessed a long, sinuous .

neck atop which rested an alligatorlike head. His wings were folded

across his back, and two clawed feet extended before him, aimlessly

pawing the air, while Kulgan scratched behind bony eye ridges. His long

tail swung back and forth, inches above the floor.

The door opened and the big bowman entered, holding a dressed and

spitted loin of pork before him. Without a word he crossed to the

fireplace and set the meat to cook. Fantus raised his head, using his long

neck to good advantage to peek over the table. With a flick of his forked

tongue, the drake jumped down and, in stately fashion, ambled over to the

hearth. He selected a warm spot before the fire and curled up to doze away

the wait before dinner. The franklin unfastened his cloak and hung it on a

peg by the door. "Storm will pass afore dawn, I'm thinking." He returned to

the fire and prepared a basting of wine and herbs for the pig. Pug was

startled to see a large scar that ran down the left side of the man's face,

showing red and angry in the firelight. Kulgan waved his pipe in the

franklin's direction. "Knowing my tight- lipped man here, you'll not have

made his proper acquaintance.

Meecham, this boy is Pug, from the keep at

Castle Crydee." Meecham gave a brief nod, then returned to tending the

roasting loin.

Pug nodded back, though a bit late for Meecham to notice. "I never

thought to thank you for saving me from the boar."

Meecham replied, "There's no need for thanks, boy. Had I not startled

the beast, it's unlikely it would have charged you." He left the

hearth and crossed over to another part of the room, took some brown

dough from a cloth-covered bucket, and started kneading. "Well, sir," said

Pug to Kulgan, "it was his arrow that killed the pig. It was indeed

fortunate that he was following the animal." Kulgan laughed. "The poor

creature, who is our most welcome guest for dinner, happened to be as much

a victim of circumstance as yourself." Pug looked perplexed. "I don't

follow, sir." Kulgan stood and took down an object from the topmost shelf

on his bookcase and placed it on the table before the boy. It was wrapped

in a cover of dark blue velvet, so Pug knew at once it must be a prize of

great value for such an expensive material to be used for covering. Kulgan

removed the velvet, revealing an orb of crystal that gleamed in the

firelight. Pug gave an ah of pleasure at the beauty of it, for it was

without apparent flaw and splendid in its simplicity of form.

Kulgan pointed to the sphere of glass. "This device was fashioned as a gift

by Althafain of Carse, a most puissant artihcer of magic, who thought me

worthy of such a present, as I have done him a favor or two

in the past-but that is of little matter. Having just this day returned ''

from the company of Master Althafain, I was testing his token. Look deep

into the orb, Pug." Pug fixed his eyes on the ball and tried to follow the

flicker of firelight "that seemed to play deep within its structure. The

reflections of the room, multiplied a hundredfold, merged and danced as his

eyes tried to ;' fasten upon each aspect within the orb. They flowed and

blended, then grew cloudy and obscure. A soft white glow at the center of

the ball :replaced the red of firelight, and Pug felt his gaze become

trapped by its pleasing warmth. Like the warmth of the kitchen at the keep,

he thought absently. Suddenly the milky white within the ball vanished, and

Pug could see an image of the kitchen before his eyes. Fat Alfan the cook

was making pastries, licking the sweet crumbs from his fingers. This

brought the wrath of Megar, the head cook, down upon his head, for Megar

considered it a disgusting habit.

Pug laughed at the scene, one he had witnessed

before many times, and it vanished. Suddenly he felt tired. KUlgan

wrapped the orb in the cloth and put it away. "You did well, boy," he said

thoughtfully. He stood watching the boy for a moment, as if considering

something, then sat down. "I would not have suspected you of being able to

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fashion such a clear image in one try, but you seem to be more than you

first appear to be."

"Sir?"

"Never mind, Pug." He paused for a moment, then

said, "I was using that toy for the first time, judging how far I could

send my sight, when I spied you making for the road. From your limp and

bruised condition, I judged that you would never reach the town, so I sent

Meecham to fetch you." Pug looked embarrassed by the unusual attention,

color rising to his cheeks. He said, with a thirteen-year-old's high

estimation of his own ability, "You needn't have done that, sir. I would

have reached the town in due time."

Kulgan smiled. "Perhaps, but then again, perhaps not. The storm is

unseasonably severe and perilous for traveling." Pug listened to the soft

tattoo of rain on the roof of the cottage. The storm seemed to have

slackened, and Pug doubted the magician's

words. As if reading the boy's thought, Kulgan said, "Doubt me not,

Pug. This glade is protected by more than the great boles. Should you pass

beyond the circle of oaks that marks the edge of my holding, you would feel

the storm's fury. Meecham, how do you gauge this wind?" Meecham put down

the bread dough he was kneading and thought for a moment. "Near as bad as

the storm that beached six ships three

years back." He paused for a moment, as if reconsidering the estimate,

then nodded his endorsement. "Yes, nearly as bad, though it won't blow

so long."

Pug thought back three years to the storm that had blown a Quegan trading

fleet bound for Crydee onto the rocks of Sailor's Grief. At its height, the

guards on the castle walls were forced to stay in the towers, lest they be

blown down. If this storm was that severe, then Kulgan's magic was

impressive, for outside the cottage it sounded no worse than a spring rain.

Kulgan sat back on the bench, occupied with trying to light his extinguished

pipe. As he produced a large cloud of sweet white smoke, Pug's

attention wandered to a case of books standing behind the magician. His

lips moved silently as he tried to discern what was written on the

bindings, but could not. Kulgan lifted an eyebrow and said, "So you can

read, aye?" Pug started, alarmed that he might have offended the magician

by intruding on his domain. Kulgan, sensing his embarrassment, said, "It is

all right, boy. It is no crime to know letters." Pug felt his discomfort

diminish. "I can read a little, sir. Megar the cook has shown me how to

read the tallies on the stores laid away for the kitchen in the cellars. I

know some numbers, as well."

"Numbers, too," the magician exclaimed good-naturedly.

"Well, you are something of a rare bird." He reached behind

himself and pulled out one volume, bound in red-brown leather, from the

shelf. He opened it, squinting at one page, then another, and at last found

a page that seemed to meet his requirements. He turned the open book around

and lay it upon the table before Pug. Kulgan pointed to a page illuminated

by a magnificent design of snakes, flowers, and twining vines in a colorful

design around a large letter in the upper left corner. "Read this,

boy." Pug had never seen anything remotely like it. His lessons had been on

plain parchment with letters fashioned in Megar's blunt script, using a

charcoal stick. He sat, fascinated by the details of the work, then realized

the magician was staring at him. Regaining his wits, he began to read.

"And then there came a sum . . . summons from . . ." He looked

at the word, stumbling over the complex combinations that were

new to

him. ". . . Zacara." He paused, looking at Kulgan to see if he was

correct. The magician nodded for him to continue. "For the north was to be

forgot . . . forgotten, lest the heart of the empire lan . . . lan-guish

and all be lost. And though of Bosania from birth, those soldiers still

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